


Glow, stars!

by Talullah



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works
Genre: Adultery, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-25
Updated: 2014-08-25
Packaged: 2018-02-14 15:36:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2197215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talullah/pseuds/Talullah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aldarion pursues his heart's desire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Glow, stars!

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to jaiden_s for the beta. Any remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> Written for the 2009 Ardor in August slashy_santa exchange, for thrihyrne who requested:
> 
>   * Rating = NC17
>   * Pairing = I'd love to see a story about Aldarion (Tar-Aldarion). It could be Aldarion and one of his beloved shipwrights, or even Aldarion/Círdan since he studied under him. A thoughtful Man/Man story set in Rohan would be lovely, or even a Thengel/a man of Gondor (prior to his marriage to Morwen). If I'm paired with someone who only writes Elves, I love redheads, so if you could write something featuring Amrod or Amras (but not together!), that'd be great.
>   * Plot elements = Honestly, I'd just enjoy a well-spun tale with fleshed-out, believable characterizations, and some hot sex. Detail to canon is love.
>   * Does Not Want = No fluff, nothing overly sweet, no incest, not AU ([so no mpreg!] aside from the slash part, *g*), not terrifically dark. Nothing sappy, either.
> 

> 
> [Disclaimer/Blanket Statement](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Talullah/profile)

**Armenelos, Second Age 870**

“Aldarion, what do you do?” I ask myself. It is my wedding night and here I stand on an empty balcony under the cold starlight yearning for something I can neither define nor devise. My demure bride plays with the lace on the cuffs of her nightgown, waiting. This is a marriage of love, or hate or something in between. Regardless of our complications, we both have wedded in free will, and there is more than spite or friendship or love or disappointment between us. There is even lust, although Erendis has chastely staved off my advances. She probably wonders what keeps me out of her bed when for most of our acquaintance I did my best to gain entrance.

Air leaves my chest in a dulled sigh and my chin drops to my chest. The stars mock me, deservedly. I shake the dour thoughts and turn inside. Erendis smiles, diffident, so unlike herself that she is almost a stranger whom I could fall for again. I walk to her side, touch her check, and bring us both to lie. The night is hers, mine... The moment wins me over.

* * *

**Meneltarma, two years later...**

My forefathers have come here to this summit to worship and pray and yearn for the faint traces of Tol Eressëa. Not I. I look east, each and every time, have looked there ever since that first travel. The weight of my father’s hand on my shoulder awakes me from my reverie.

“I would blame your mother’s father for your sea-ache, but he has been too good of a friend to lay blame on him.”

My father jests. Tar-Meneldur’s dry humour is lost on most, but not on me. My father, the Stargazer, is one to talk about my obsession for the sea... Yet, he has been true and observant to his country and to my mother. Me, my longing takes me into realms of imagination and Erendis finds it harder every day to compete with dreams. I long for water, salt, and other shores, other arms. He is right, though: it was my grandfather who first took me out to the sea, when I was barely able to walk yet and that was the beginning of my fate and my passion.

“How is Erendis, that fine girl?” Father asks.

“Fine.”

Tar-Meneldur’s eyes crinkle in what could almost be amusement. “I told you she was too spirited for you...” he says, his bonhomie not entirely free from a hint of malice.

I will not lie to my father though the truth is out of the question. “Indeed, though I bear most of the blame,” I say.

“Son, soon you will be taking my place,” he starts. I hate it so when he speaks thus. I move away too brusquely. Afar, one of his counsellors turns his head in a breach of discretion. My father is not to be stopped with such ease.

“I was merely going to advise you to enjoy your freedom while you can. Soon burdens heavier than matrimony will be falling upon your shoulders.”

“Father, what do you say?”

“Simply that I need to send an embassy to the eastern shores... The task is yours should you want it.”

I try hard not to leap with excitement, but my joy shines through in every ‘thank you’ I say to my father.

* * *

**Rómenna, Second Age 877**

My father made me build a ship. Four years ago, in my enthusiastic thanks, I saw myself already jumping aboard the first ship leaving Rómenna. My mistake. My father, with his peculiar sense of humour mixed with some sort of parental concern had a lesson in patience to teach me. Said he, that to be the kind of sea farer I wanted to be I had to know a lot more about all the crafts of the sea. That without understanding there could be no true respect, and therefore the love of the sea would not be more than an infatuation. He was right, though I resented him for a while. Then, I fell in love with wood and resins and sail cloth, and from a dream Hirilondë, my beautiful Haven-finder was born.

The Guild of Venturers took me in as an apprentice! It was not the pride in my descent that was hurt, but rather the notion that I knew far too much of the sea and the sea things to be an apprentice. Once again, I was wrong, and through frustration, painstaking labour and finally wonder and elation, I did learn, and these men became my brothers.

From this process, Hirilondë, my beauty, came to shape, and all but one love and admire her. Erendis bitterly calls her my mistress. She is wrong: my only mistress has ever been the sea, and that she knew when we were wedded. I thought that we could have learned to love each other for what we are, but we both failed and now, on the eve of Hirilondë’s maiden voyage, Erendis claws her grudge fiercely. For none, not even Tar-Meneldur, whom she always loved, will she relent and grant me my only request, a simple bough of oiolairë for my prow, a promise of safe return to her arms.

I am tired and the murmurs among the crew unnerve me. There will be no bad omens, not for my ship, not for my men. If Erendis can disregard seven years of marriage, so can I. Zamîn, my captain’s wife, is as lovely as can be, and pregnant of her their first child. Who better to deliver the Green Bough of Return as a promise of life and what is to come? My decision is made even as Erendis breaks into another angry rant.

* * *

**Rómenna, Second Age 882**

We left on a clear spring day and yet return with wind and fog. Not the best auspice, it occurs to me as the pilot boat leads us through the fog into the harbour. “Just in time,” the pilot said when he came aboard and that we can see. All but one of our sails are down as the wind grows fiercely. Looks like winter has come early.

Upon the pier where so many cheered us farewell, few gather to greet us. It is no surprise, not with this weather, that the news of our arrival has not spread through town. The men look disappointed but by this evening most of them will be warming themselves by their firesides, and later in their wives’ beds. I search for Erendis but she is not there. I doubt she is even in Rómenna, which she has always hated. All the better. The five years away felt as short as the first five years of my marriage felt long.

Were it not for honour and filial duty, I would have forever roamed the seas, but my father wants his rest and the terms of our agreement were clear: I would have my freedom, but I would return to take the yoke of ruling from his shoulders.

We land and leave the ship to the care of the captain of the harbour. The Guild has never failed a weary traveller and this is what we are all now, despite the wonders we have seen in our long voyage through the eastern shores. The captain calls for a servant with a horse and I find the strength to mount the beast and head home.

As expected, it is cold and empty. Erendis left a servant behind to keep things in order but nothing more. I share a meal of bread, cheese and cold fried fish with the solemn matron in the dark kitchen, and try not to think of what I have left behind.

* * *

**Armenelos, Second Age 883**

It is akin to a fever, but it is not the familiar ache for the sea. For over a year my heart yearns for something else, perhaps the very embodiment of the sea in flesh, may the Lord Ossë forgive my impiousness. My desire is inadequate beyond measure, as I am a man wanting another male, a mortal wanting an immortal, a married man looking away from his wife, a Númenórean wanting a creature of other shores. No, ‘want’ is not the word: it is ‘need’. If I do not sail soon and fight for this need, I will perish, become one of those withered men whose body is only a talking, moving shell.

It is this certainty that holds me while Erendis shouts, “But you have been king for less than a year!” and behind her, my father nods solemnly. It was never his intention to give the throne to an absent king. Many bitter words have flown since I have made my announcement a week ago and the air is fetid with ill-will. No matter. I will be out in the clear within a month’s time.

I tell them as justification that Númenor has stood alone for far too long. We are great, greater than the Elves, even, and we have place to grow. We have diplomatic and commercial ties binding us to the eastern shores, and these need to be tended. We have a common enemy that may hide for now, but will not lurk in the shadows forever. The future of this land is not in isolation, as my father once, wisely, said. A hypocrite I may be, but not a complete liar.

Come spring, I will sail Hirilondë out to the eastern shores and no wilted, second-hand oiolairë will grace my prow, but rather an eagle, its golden beak pointing the way to the hither shores, its jewelled eyes a prompt memento of its handsome giver’s.

* * *

**Mithlond, Second Age 883**

Stubbornness is one thing, reality another. Now that I am by Círdan’s side again, want and need seem less than prudence and duty. He is a magnificent host and a splendid friend, no doubt, warm, wise, attentive... I revel in his company as I did before, his intense vitality replenishing my weary spirit, his fey beauty consoling my eyes, but fear holds me.

From the first moment I met Erendis I knew that I wanted her and that I would get her. With Círdan, I finally comprehend the insecurity I saw in other boys in my time. Only that I am not a boy anymore. In addition to losing face and a good friend, I risk losing the very diplomatic and commercial ties that were the pretext for my visit, should I make an unwelcome overture. Or even if Círdan would be graceful enough to refuse me with no harsh words, things would certainly not be the same between us. Thus, I cravenly hesitate, watching his every gesture in hopes that an invitation will come.

And it comes. When I am threading on despair and the men are asking for the sea and I am awaited in Lindon, when so much time has passed that the boughs are greening again, Círdan does the most remarkable thing. A thousand years that I would live and this day would not slip from my memory.

It goes like this: Círdan makes a point of showing me his domains in their integrity. As much as he may love the sea, he takes pride in what his people have accomplished on land and thus we ride out to the villages and around the hills. He has reasons to be proud, of course, and I relish in spending time alone with him, as no escort has come with us. His domains are not so large that we cannot see them in one day but this is a leisure trip, I understand, and we spend time at each village and small port talking to the locals.

By dusk we have to decide whether to find a place to stay for the night or ride in the dark. Clouds cover the sky, but a strange light reflects from them. We decide to ride. We arrive to Círdan’s manor much too late. The servants have gone to bed and nothings moves.

I am tired but not ready to sleep and so I drop to a comfortable chair, looking out a window. Círdan, ever the gracious host, brings me a calyx of something strong and perfumed. We sip in silence until he starts reviewing the day, and soon all weariness seems to have left us, remaining only the pleasure of lively conversation. Soon we talk of more personal affairs. I am dying to ask why Círdan is not married or attached, but I refrain myself. Instead, I respond to his gentle probing, until comes the question: Do you not miss your family? Your wife?

“I am a seaman,” I reply.

Círdan laughs. “They too miss their wives, or at least the comforts of their presences.”

I cannot reply without falsehood, so I retort, “And you? Don’t you find need of such marital comforts?”

Círdan looks away to the cloudy skies, then faces me. “My pleasures lie elsewhere as I am sure you have noticed.”

I have to search for words before I can reply. “I know nothing of such pleasures,” I start carefully, “except the play that all boys engage in their early years...”

Círdan grins. “Your ignorance is your loss.”

“Agreed,” I say with perhaps more vehemence than needed. “And ignorance is such a dire thing.”

Círdan raises an eyebrow. “Would you be looking for an education?”

“Pining for it,” I blurt in confession.

And there it is, so easy, so within hand’s reach what I have been wanting for too long. Círdan rises from his chair and sits on the arm of mine. His fingers trace the line of my jaw, turning my face up to him and he deposits a single kiss on the corner of my lips.

“Could we perhaps find a cosier place than my hall?” he inquires in soft voice. Is there a tremor to it or did I dream it?

I assent, barely knowing what I do as I follow him. Outside, the clouds are moving, clearing the sky as some sort of omen.

We find ourselves in Círdan’s rooms and I reach for him like a drowning man. He chuckles, indulges and for a few moments all is flying clothes and frantic rubbing until we are naked and aroused. I hesitate. I could turn him and take him from behind; at least it is how they say it is done in jokes. For one wanting a man for so long, I could have grown better informed.

Círdan detects my vacillation and finds it amusing. He pushes me back to the bed and straddles me, kissing me fiercely. He moves backwards and opens my legs with one knee, settling in between. How I love to feel him hot and hard against me as we kiss, but I fear what is to come next. He laughs, apparently reading my every thought, and kneels there.

“Do not fret, my noble Aldarion,” he taunts before diving his head to my groin. Oh, the joys of that mouth. I am indeed ignorant but I cannot contemplate any such thought as Círdan’s sweet kisses bring me torment and bliss in equal doses. For several times, he stops, his strong hand pressing down on me until I have cooled down, away from climax, and then he starts again his task. It is a glorious sight, that of his eyes closed in concentration, the slight wrinkle in his forehead as if this act gives him as much pleasure as it gives me. Now and then he opens his eyes and we share a gaze that seems to contain so many thoughts and feelings, but now is not the time to talk.

After a while, I stop him with a hand on his shoulder and move to top him and return the favour. I know I am far from being as adept as Círdan has shown himself, but what I do, out of instinct and good-will, is received with sounds of approbation and words of encouragement. I enjoy the taste and the feel of his member in my mouth, but most of all, the pleasure that I can give in this way and that Círdan in no way hides.

This time it is his turn to stop me. “Want to try something else?” he asks.

My pride should be prickled from being treated as an innocent, but I only eagerly accept. Círdan pulls us to lie side by side and drapes my leg over his. I understand what he wants with no need for words. We search each other, hands, arms, mouths, legs and we dance to each other’s song, our lengths hard and aching against each other, our hips driving them together. I need more, and so I grasp us into my hand, clenching so hard it hurts but Círdan’s moan is anything but of protest. The saliva left there eases my task and with Círdan’s hand clutching my buttocks I drive us all the way to the end.

I come first, spurting warm jets all over Círdan’s front. The sight of the silver trails in his well-toned frame brings a last shudder from my groin and with that spasm comes Círdan’s release.

Later, we talk about our circumstances, the prick on my conscience that this first betrayal of my marriage vows is, the impossibilities and the prospects of us. I would have taken anything from Círdan, but it warms my heart that in me he sees more than handsome flesh.

He finally seems to rest in my arms and somnolence tugs at me too. I look through the window and in the dark velvet of the night sky, the stars glow.

_Finis  
August 2009_


End file.
